


Facing Day X

by Serasent



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Day X, Gen, peanut - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serasent/pseuds/Serasent
Summary: It's the end of Season 9's championship series, and surely nothing bad is about to happen.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21
Collections: Real Good Shit





	Facing Day X

Game 5 of the Internet Series, 4-2 to the Crabs, no outs, bottom of the ninth.

After what seemed like it would be a clean sweep to the long-awaited mysteries of Ascension for the Baltimore favourites, the Shoe Thieves had pulled back two close games, and in the final game of the series, with everything on the line, Charleston were still in with a chance. A pair of quick singles had Simon Haley on first, Velasquez Alstott on second, and they waited with bated breath for their next hitter.

Stu Trololol swaggered to the plate, accompanied by the dull ringing of her tuning-fork bat as it dragged on the ground behind her. Squaring up and raising her bat, she locked eyes with Adalberto Tosser, pitching for the Crabs.

"Come on then, mate," she smirked.

A high outside curveball whipped through the air and the home crowd roared, as Trololol stayed in position, focused on her prey.

A blast of hot air from behind her as the ground-glass voice of the umpire pronounced its verdict.

**_B A L L_ **

A glance past Stu from Tosser to catcher, and his huge pitching arm flew forward, propelling a punishing fastball right over the plate. She tensed, preparing to hit, and-

_ No, Stu. Focus. You've seen this before. _ And as time slowed and the ball approached, she realised she had - the Adalberto who played for the Lobsters in her home universe pitched left-handed, sure, but she suddenly remembered seeing the same delivery from him on a wicked slider seasons ago. But would his alternate do the same?

Her nerve held. The ball stayed straight until the last moment, and just as she began to feel the faintest pang of self-doubt, it plummeted, almost skimming the plate as it whizzed past her foot.

**_B A L L_ **

Another smirk, as she stared the Baltimore pitcher dead in the eye. "Hey, Bertie! You missed, my bat's up here!"

A flicker of annoyance from Tosser, and his arm whipped forward in the same way again. The slider flew at Trololol even faster than before, and by the time she'd had a chance to think  _ What if it's a double bluff? What if it's not? _ the slider-that-wasn't had already flown past her, dead centre. The crowd gasped, and she could feel the ump's hot breath on her back as it hissed in anticipation.

**_S T R I K E O N E_ **

"Come on then, Bertie-boy, let's wrap this up already!" Stu shook out her shoulders, squared back up to the plate, and shot a glance past the huge peanut shell in the Crabs dugout that she knew held her brother, and up to the stands, where she gave a nod to the crowd.  _ This one's for you, Axel. _

The ball flew, and spun, and just as it began to screw away from her bat, she swung, and the huge, clean  _ BWONG _ from her bat told her it was everything she wanted from a hit, as the ball shot out into the stands.

She didn't even bother running: she knew the homer was good, she knew she'd just taken the series for the Thieves and taken the chance of Ascension out of the Crabs' claws, and as she took a leisurely walk around the bases to the crowd's rapturous applause and screams of WHOSE KICKS? OUR KICKS!, she took a moment to look back at the harrowing events of the last few seasons, and made her biggest mistake of the day. She thought,  _ What happens next? _

\-------

Jaylen Hotdogfingers sits in the Shoe Thieves dugout, anxious fingers absently probing her wrist for a pulse as she only half pays attention to the match. The pulse is only ever thready at best in her wrist, but she doesn't like trying to find it in her neck any more: bringing her fingers that close to her ear makes her all too aware of the ever-present, reverberating hum that has pervaded her body ever since she took up the Microphone's offer to change the terms of her debt. She's just about found it - an unsteady, skittering snare drum rhythm - when she hears the familiar  _ BWONG _ of Stu's tuning fork hitting home.  _ Why does she even use that, anyway? _ she thinks.  _ I don't know a lot about physics, but... okay, I guess I got followed back from death by a monster squid and then made a deal with a microphone, so I can't complain. _

The noise of the crowd reaches fever pitch, but Jaylen doesn't even look up.  _ Big whoop _ , she thinks.  _ We get another run, but it's not going to be enough. We're just delaying the inevitable, before the Crabs go meet the gods and see what that gets you. _ But then the shouts of SHAME and the familiar opening chords of ‘Give Us Your Shoes’ (she feels like she’s been hearing that at wins her whole career, despite knowing that she only got traded a few matches ago) fill her ears, and she realises,  _ We won _ . But then, the music and the shouts of the fans and the celebrations of the new champions are abruptly ripped away, leaving only an unnatural silence and the bone-deep wrench of terror that Jaylen has learned to associate with the presence of beings that tear the fragile veil between worlds. And then, a colossal form appears in the sky above the stadium, the sinister lemniscate shape that the entire league had learned to fear over the last six seasons. The Peanut. And it speaks, in a booming, cracked voice loud enough to split the sky, though Jaylen has the feeling nobody is actually hearing it with their ears.

**I AM HERE** , it says.

**AND YOU ARE OUT.**

**COME TO ME, MY PODS** , and with this pronouncement, Jaylen sees the great shelled form of Axel Trololol suddenly disappear from the opposing dugout, and turning back to the field, sees it revolving slowly below the Peanut, along with eleven smaller shells, all linked to the unearthly intruder with smoky tendrils of red energy.

**YOU THINK YOU ARE SO TOUGH?**

**YOU THINK YOU HAVE POWER?** And Jaylen faintly hears the protestations of the fans and players, but even Blood’s wild-eyed shouts of defiance echo from a dark distance, despite the fact that he is standing by Jaylen’s side.  _ But yes _ , she thinks.  _ We do have power. How else would I be standing here? _

**WE WILL SEE.**

**TIME TO TEACH YOU SOME DISCIPLINE.**

And as the fundamental word of the Discipline Era echoes in the still air above Choux Stadium, the twelve peanut shells plunge at dizzying speed, shattering in a cloud of dust as they hit the field. A deathly silence fills the stadium again as a group of familiar forms emerge from the cloud, and Jaylen hears cheers (again, faintly and far away) from some of the fans and players at the appearance of their long-awaited friends and idols.  _ No _ , Jaylen thinks.  _ This is wrong. Why would it give us what we wanted? This is another trap _ . And sure enough, as the shelled players emerge from the cloud of peanut dust, the cheers and shouts fade, as the assembled blaseballers realise what has happened. The shelled players are all there - Bong, Quitter, Sasquatch, Beyonce, Leaf, Pothos, Duffy, Silk, Telephone, Holloway, Trololol, and the Pitching Machine - but they look  _ different _ , all with bone-white hair, yellowish, cracking skin, and wide, haunted eyes that glow a deep red, and all dressed in matching, unfamiliar red uniforms. As the onlookers stare, the players line up down one edge of the field, and as the pallid, twisted form of the usually-jovial Peanut Bong stumbles to home plate dragging a nut-shell bat, red streaks still connecting them to the presence in the sky, Jaylen realises what the Peanut is here to do.

She looks down the dugout, meeting the weary eyes and dishevelled clothes of the usually-impeccable Cornelius Games, exhausted after pitching a career-defining game, and then on to Snyder Briggs, next in the rotation. Even through the perpetual heat haze surrounding him, Jaylen can see all the colour drained from his face, and she knows that the ex-sloccer player is never going to be able to fight something like this.  _ Well, _ she thinks,  _ if we’re out, then I guess so are the rules _ . 

Jaylen Hotdogfingers emerges resolutely from the Shoe Thieves’ dugout, the flickering smoke around the hand gripping a blaseball the only indication of the terror she is suppressing.  _ Keep your head up _ , she thinks.  _ The void’s going to want you back eventually, so do this on your terms _ . And she takes the mound.

**TIME TO TEACH YOU SOME DISCIPLINE** , the nut repeats, and Jaylen notices with horror (or the closest thing to horror she can feel any more) that the same voice is issuing from the mouths of all the formerly-shelled players in perfect unison.

Bong raises his bat, and all the sound that had been absent from the stadium rushes back in a cacophonous tidal wave, as the familiar haze of the void settles over Jaylen’s mind. Either she stops experiencing all of what follows, or the dark powers at play have torn the fabric of time, because whenever she looks back on this fateful night, Jaylen will only ever be able to remember the first match against the PODS in snatches of fragmented experience.

\-------

Countless shrieking birds fill the sky. Velasquez Alstott hits a soaring fly ball and shouts encouragement to third base as Jaylen watches from the sidelines, and the twelve returned players roar in pain and rage as Richardson Games’ grappling hook pulls him past home plate. Still, Jaylen can hear an edge of mockery in their shouts.  _ It’s still a trap _ , she thinks.  _ They’re playing with their food _ .

Later (or is it?) the birds swarm about the opposing team, pecking at their shelled skin and chasing their batters from the plate.  _ So are they on our side now?  _ Jaylen thinks.  _ Are there even sides any more? _

\-------

**BOW BEFORE MY PODS** , the Peanut orders, and the stadium falls into darkness as the sun is eclipsed. Standing defiantly on the mound, Jaylen can smell smoke.

\-------

A terrible noise echoes through the air, setting Jaylen’s teeth on edge as she stands on the sidelines. At the plate, tears stream down Stu Trololol’s face as she faces off against the metal form of her brother atop the mound. “Bruv...you don’t have to do this, bruv! Fight it!” she says, moments before a ball flies from Axel’s mounted cannon at terrifying speed. Still weeping, Stu swings wildly, making contact with an ugly  _ clang _ . Almost immediately, the ball is retrieved by the dully-staring York Silk, who effortlessly tosses it to first base.

Jaylen knows she should feel something.

\--------

Jaylen stares in vague disbelief as the Taco’s old Pitching Machine is wheeled up to the plate.  _ But it’s a  _ pitching _ machine _ , she thinks.  _ What’s it going to do from there? _ Almost amused, she tosses a lazy fastball towards the plate, only for another ball to come flying from the machine, intercepting her pitch mid-flight and sending it rocketing down the first baseline.

**_F O U L B A L L_ ** , the ump hisses.

After so many seasons and everything that has happened to her, Jaylen didn’t know she could still be surprised.

\-----------

Jaylen tastes copper and salt, as blood rains from the skies above Charleston. Wyatt Quitter, formerly of the Tacos, stands at the plate, rigid and listless, their cap firmly forward on their ashen hair. Jaylen throws a high screwball, and as it curls from her fingers, she feels a jolt of reverberation travel down her arm and into the ball. She realises this is one of her ‘special’ pitches, the ones that would have marked a better for death before the intercession of the Microphone, and watches it stutter jerkily through the air, twisting in mid-flight and hitting Quitter’s arm with a vibration Jaylen can feel from the mound. The hitter barely reacts at first, then shrugs, drops their bat, and says in a discordant mixture of their own voice and the grating voice of the Peanut, “ **I quit.** ” Quitter wanders lazily to first base, where they proceed to take a seat on the ground, seemingly entirely disconnected from the match at hand if it were not for the lines of energy still connecting them to the architect of Discipline.

Later (it must be later?), Quitter is caught trying to steal third base, still with the same disinterested stroll.

\------------

**SHAME** , the Peanut intones, its enthralled players speaking in unison.

**WHERE IS YOUR SPIRIT?**

**HERE**

**HAVE SOME OF MINE.**

A wave of red light crashes over the Shoe Thieves, and Jaylen’s head snaps back as otherworldly energy fills her, relieving all the aches and tiredness of the championship series, and for an instant, she feels utterly connected to her new team, sharing their every experience as the Peanut’s light brings them together. Seizing the moment, Jaylen thinks,  _ Be careful _ , and she knows every Shoe Thief in the stadium can hear her.  _ It’s still a trap _ , she cautions, seeing the tight stances and acid-sharp focus of the opposing team,  _ and I don’t think they’re playing nice any more _ .

The moment ends, and peanuts begin to fall from the sky.

\-----------

**READY TO ATONE?** The Peanut asks, and for a moment, Jaylen wishes she could. Every fibre in her body rings with the sound she’s been hearing all season, and she can still hear the scream and taste the ashes of every player she condemned to the flames of the Hall.  _ It would be so easy _ , she thinks,  _ just to stop. Just give up, and let whatever it has planned happen _ . Then, as the new inning starts, a familiar diminutive figure walks up to the plate. York Silk has an expression that is at once blank and sadistic, and his bladed bat is longer than he is tall.

**MY DORK** , roars the Peanut’s mocking tone, echoed through the mouth of each of its players, and an exhausted Jaylen dimly hears anguished shouts from the Crabs’ dugout, as three of their players hold back the armoured figure of Nagomi McDaniel, trying in vain to reach the thing that was once her stepson. 

Jaylen gets to her feet.  _ No,  _ she thinks.  _ We have to fight this. And I still have a debt. _

\--------------

**RING RING** , says the voice of the Peanut, aping the usual shouts of the horrified fans as the PODS’ star batter steps up to the plate. Jessica Telephone’s eyes, now stained blood-red, meet Jaylen’s, and she raises the Dial Tone to her shoulder.

_ I always knew something would end this way _ , Jaylen thinks as she hurls another curveball, and it almost makes it past the batter before she lands a glancing blow, sending it foul behind the catcher.

“ **Of course it would,** ” says the soft voice of Jessica Telephone, laced with the jagged sound of the Peanut and repeated through the mouths of all her teammates. “ **You needed to be taught a lesson.** ” Jaylen stares in shock at this intrusion for a second, then squares up for one more big pitch, and the last thing she remembers before everything goes black is thinking one more thing, loud and clear for anyone who was listening - the six words that keep her on the mound, day after day, season after season, debt after debt.

_ The pitcher must throw the ball. _

\----------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in gods only know how long, so thanks for reading it! Full credit for a lot of the inspiration goes to Fancymancer's character designs, along with @HetreaSky's amazing #miniblaseball series.


End file.
